


Don't You Want Me?

by churchenbells



Category: American Psycho - All Media Types
Genre: Descriptions of rape and violence, Homophobia, It's an American Psycho fic, It's going to be disgusting, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27486529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/churchenbells/pseuds/churchenbells
Summary: Patrick Bateman and Tim Price share an hour or so.
Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Timothy Price
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Don't You Want Me?

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to emulate Ellis's style. I'm actually very surprised that Tim/Patrick, or gay Tim in general, isn't more common, I always assumed the smudge at the end of the book was a reference to AIDS, and it seems to be a common theory that the whole novel centers around Patrick being closeted. 
> 
> Anyway, it's an American Psycho fanfic so expect offensive, though I didn't go crazy with it. There are slurs purely because they would be there in the book. I don't say this kind of stuff anywhere else.

I had stopped masturbating about two and a half weeks ago because I was afraid that my creativity had run out. In September I picked up a college student walking down Broadway, fresh face, clearly never been in the city before. By the time I knocked her teeth out and stuck my cock in I was already bored and hoping she'd just hurry up and die so I could catch some late-night television. CBS was running an interview with Donald Trump. I had hoped to attain some new avenues of depravity as an escape from the recent rut I'd gotten into of rape dismember and dump. This is probably the cause of Tim Price's new sexual appeal. 

And I am thinking to myself that maybe there is something about Tim Price as the dirty smudge moves under his eye right where my thumb went when I was popping out Irene's.

"I should tell Luis," Tim Price says. His linen suit by Valentino Couture is on the floor. I hate how linen wrinkles. "He's been dying for you since Arizona." He owes this audacity to three martinis, a half a gram of coke and half a gram of baby formula. 

"He should be dying faster," I reply. 

Luis should be dead. I could kill Luis. But why kill Luis? He's a nothing, a nobody, the entire experience would only be a waste of my time with nothing lost on his end even as I shove those stupid Burlington ties up his ass and pull them back up his mouth. There is nothing beautiful about Luis, nothing to keep, not even the satisfaction of his silence. I could reacquaint the two sides of his skull to each other and the faggot would only thank me. 

I remember the humiliating scene at Barney's again and for an instant reconsider smothering Timothy right here and now. 

Back to Timothy. He's taking his sweet time stripping and it's really pissing me off. Any other cunt would be getting fucked by now. If I pulled his skin out I know there would be meat underneath but in the moment it seems as though he could unravel forever, leaving the stain of pollution to cover his insides as his skin spirals out into nothingness and I am suddenly reminded of a woman I once saw peeling an apple on Patty's show "Cooking with Ritual Abusers."

Finally skin to skin. Tim wasn't lying. Even with his unsettling and even disgusting new presence after what I can only assume to be rehab or a cult in the Southwest, his core is magnificent. Completely buffed out. His biceps flex like steel ropes under my hands. I curse my skin; for all the products I use on it I continue to be prone to acne on steroids. Oh god, if Tim Price's dick is bigger than mine I will break down and cry right now, I know I will. I could flip him over to discourage any comparison, but then if mine is bigger he won't know how fucking amazing I look. I have to take that chance.

Pan to the right. I see the two of us reflected in the mirror next to my steel and oakwood bed. My sheets? Donna Karan. Silk. A deep red—fucking jackasses at the laundromat wouldn't take cranapple for an answer. I would typically prefer white but looking now I can see that the red makes Price look pale beneath me while my perfect tan stands out. I should kill more people with personal tanning beds. This is good. I look good, I look strong. Fucking virile.

The whole thing is over in half an hour or so. Most of the time is shaved off by the fact that Tim Price may be a faggot but the faggots keep their business to bathroom stalls and don't expect reassurance or small talk or swapping prescription scripts like every other bitch in this city. He excuses himself to go cry in the shower or whatever his people do after this. The dirt is spreading over his body and I can no longer tell myself it is a trick of the light. Tim's skin looks like it has ash right below the surface. He doesn't bother tanning anymore. 

He won't be staying the night.

And well, I guess this is the kind of thing that sort of happens when you're young and alone and in the prime of your life, and ultimately no one needs to know about Patrick Bateman and Timothy Price and ten thousand faggots marching up to the capitol building. I look at Tim and will him to understand in the way he always has that we are only running on our tracks and that he is an issue of no consequence. Neither of us should want anything more.


End file.
